The inconsistent, contradictory ramblings of Scarlett the Harlot

If a problem comes along, you must whip it!

2009-11-08T15:54:58Z

I have a lofty goal. That goal is to read 100 books in one year. For those of you doing the math, that means I have roughly four days a book. With a little overlap, sure. Now me, I'm notorious for starting a book, seeing a squirrel or something, getting distracted and putting it down for a few weeks. Then I'll pick it up three ~~months~~, ~~weeks~~ days later and finish it off. So this goal is more than a little lofty. Actually, it might be too big for my britches, so to speak.

That's why the first book I picked up was easy. Granted, I didn't know it was easy when I picked it up. I picked it up because It's Now A Major Motion Picture. And I have a girl crush soft spot for Ellen Page and roller derby looks badass, so I figured the book had to be awesome, right? Actually, I wasn't far off. I polished off Whip It by Shauna Cross in a day-and-a-half, which is well within my four day goal, and given that I'm ALSO doing NaNo this month (I'm an overachiever--okay, fine, I'm stupid) it was totally a blessing in disguise.

Whip It packs a pretty amazing punch. The story is about Bliss Cavendar, a sixteen-year-old malcontent from Bodeen, Texas. Bliss is an amazing, badass, indie-rock loving misfit that I would have killed to have been as cool as in high school. She hates her life (of course) and her mother, who is convinced she's going to be the next Miss America. Which is unfortunate for Bliss because that means she'll have to dye over her blue streaks. Bliss' best friend is Pash (as in Passion--seriously, WHY wasn't I this cool in high school?) and because Bodeen is boring they have to make their own fun, doing things like shoplifting from the local Wal-Mart and PG-13 shenanigans at their job-the local BBQ joint. Because it's Texas, so of course there's a pig cooker somewhere in town.

Through a few lucky planetary alignmenty type things, Bliss finds out about the Roller Derby in Austin. She and Pash manage to go and Bliss lies about her age and joins up. What follows is the story of Bliss following her, well, bliss and finding out that sometimes that has consequences. I liked that as she was coming into her own it wasn't all peppermint clouds and cotton candy mountains. There were actual problems she had to surmount. There's a serious misunderstanding between her and her best friend because she actually does screw up and it isn't just taken care of after-school-special style in twenty minutes. She meets a boy (a musician! a bass player!) and they have a thing and that's also handled completely believably.

When her parents find out she's basically sneaking off to Austin every two days to play Roller Derby and the shit hits the fan, this is also in the realm of completely believable and not at all trite. Bliss ends up camped out on one of the Derby girls couch for a while and the girl (Malice in Wonderland--how AWESOME are derby names, for serious?!) becomes a kindof surrogate mother for three days, this wasn't my reality, but it was framed so well within the confines of the book that I could totally see it happening. There was a slight twist at the end that I didn't really see coming (although looking back I guess I should have) and it was awesome. Likewise, everything wrapped up with a pretty, black-and-white-striped, neon green skulled bow but it wasn' t saccharine at all. If anything it was a very tight, very well written novel.

I did have a minor complaints. Namely, that there was a better final confrontation between Bliss and her Roller Derby nemesis. There aren't really any true villains in the book. Because Bliss is a teenager, the main villain is Life Conspiring Against Her, so Bitchy Derby Girl is just part of Life. But because Derby Girl is alluded to having done something seriously Not Cool it would have been nice to have had an actual confrontation between her and Bliss. I wasn't expecting a teary hat-tip and a "you're one of us now, kid" because that wouldn't have been true at all, but just something. Derby Girl just kind of fades into the woodwork after the final match, which is sad. It's a minor loose end and that might have been the fault of the editor, not Shauna Cross, but it rankled.

The book is written in first person from Bliss' perspective (obviously). Because Bliss is this amazing indie type teenager the book reads like a cross between a stream of consciousness and a blog. It's got a very fast pace and moves, well, like it's on skates.

Overall a definite must read for anybody who enjoys the Young Adult genre or anybody who appreciates a bitchin' female narrator.

Also, now I'm in the mood for The Velvet Underground.

The Endeavor: Book 1

SO amazing!

2009-11-03T23:56:46Z

Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.

2009-11-02T15:40:39Z

Every now and again I pick up a book specifically because somebody recommended it to me. I don't just mean I pick it up from the book store, I mean, I go to amazon, I add it to the shopping cart, I read the synopsis, and it looks so good that not only do I order it, but I overnight it because it looks so compelling. Such was the case with Sarah Waters' Fingersmith.

Did you know if you're only overnighting one book, the overnight fee from amazon will probably be double the cost of the book, if said book is a paperback? True story.

So, Fingersmith. The novel is about Sue Trinder. Sue is a girl raised in one of the bad parts of London by one of the bad sorts of people. She lives in a house that's teeming with children, her foster mother, Mrs. Sucksby, always has babies around. Its sortof understood that Mrs. Sucksby sells children. Mrs. Sucksby has an understanding with Mr. Ibbs, the man that owns the adjoining pawnshop. Then there's Dainty and John Vroom who also live in the house, siblings of a sort, though it's a strange kind of family because Sue makes it plain that there's nothing really holding these people together but convenience. In her mind the only two people that are truly connected are her and Mrs. Sucksby. The rest are just there because it's convenient.

Sue's got an okay life, but she's a little bored with it. Then one night, in walks Gentleman. This guy who's named Richard, but everybody calls Gentleman because it's rumored that he's related to gentry and he's smart and he's a forger and he basically does make his living swindling society ladies. Gentleman's got a con that he wants done and he needs Sue to do it. There's this girl, Maude, who he's going to convince to marry him and he needs Sue to be her lady's maid and also to help him convince her and control her and the two of them will then ship her off to a nut house and swindle her out of her inheritance. Seems simple right?

Well Sue agrees to it and the two get to it. There's a lot more to the story than that and I would go into it but I can't think of how without giving away a lot of the integral plot twists. Of which there are MANY.

The girl that recommended this book to me originally read it in, like, a day. I can totally see how she did because it was a very engrossing read. It took me more like a month-and-a-half, though. Mainly because it was such a heavy book that I got halfway through and had to put it down for an extended period of time. So, I guess I read it in a week if you don't count the down time.

It really is a mind bender, you get a bunch of great narrative on Victorian sexuality and asylums and even master/servant relations. Waters definitely did her research and she's a very talented writer. I felt like the ending was a bit of a let down. it was sortof an anti-climactic, tacked on, happy ending that I could have done without, but overall it was a good read that I'd recommend to anyone and I'll hang onto.

what are guys REALLY thinking...

2009-10-30T00:14:56Z

I have a morbid fascination with the grotesque. Not the really grotesque stuff that I could find on the internet. I never fell for the "two girls, one cup" links floating around, and I never felt the need to look up sex with goats or anything, but I do find myself reading things that most of the people in my alto-liberal-hippie college would have sneered at.

I like Eli Roth, I laugh at dead baby jokes, and I watch Southpark fairly unironically. But I also subscribe to Bitch and Bust magazines, I live for etsy.com, and I despise the The Hills. I don't consider myself a hipster, but I'm self aware enough to know that if I looked more like a hipster I'd probably be more likely to go that way.

So I picked up The Average American Male by Chad Kultgen with more than a little ambivalence. I mean, on the one hand, of course it's something I would read. On the other hand of course it isn't. This is the first cover quote (and the one that sold me): "I can't figure out if this book is a heartfelt dispatch from the front line in the battle of the sexes or a brilliant send-up of the way the male point of view has been misrepresented by militant feminists. I suspect it may be both."

So let's just get something out of the way right off the bat: I have no idea what I was expecting. I knew going into it this was fiction, but I wasn't sure if it was a fictionalized memoir, or an experimental novel, or a novelized blog or just a novel or a senior creative writing thesis or what. I will say that because the about the author is in the front of the book I knew going into it that Chad Kultgen went to USC's Film School so I was going into it thinking he was a little bit of a hipster douche. Think Brody Jenner with a book deal, if you will. Also his name is Chad. Chad sounds like a frat boy type. Not one of the jock frat boys, but the douchey, date-rapey, I'm-not-really-that-kind-of-frat-boy frat boy types.

I could be giving him to hard a time.

Actually I'm pretty sure I am.

That's the thing about this novel. It is impossible for a woman to read it and not end up hating the main character and by extension, the author. Why? Because he's an asshole. Not in a "send up of militant feminism" way, but in a true "I'm actually an asshole, here, watch me be an asshole" kinda way. Not that that's entirely his fault. A lot of the events of the first half of the novel conspire against him. The book opens with the main character, I honestly can't remember his name--Brian? Jason? Chad?--maybe he doesn't have a name, coming home from Christmas with his parents and complaining about "some fat old cunt" eating yogurt. Also, fantasizing about this girl across the isle.

Then we meet his girlfriend, Casey. Casey, apparently, has a fat ass. That's the one thing I remember about Casey. That and she's a crazy bitch who's obsessed with getting married by the time she's twenty eight because her mother's drilled it into her that her only worth is by finding a husband and making babies and the main character MUST BE THE ONE, not because Casey loves him, but because SHE'S NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER. So Casey basically paints him into a corner and they're engaged by technicality and it's clear he doesn't want it but she's crazy and totally not hearing him telling her he's not into it, also her parents have jumped on it, so her mom's already coming out to plan the wedding. His response? Dumping her in front of her mother. Casey's response to that? Faking a pregnancy. Of course.

I cannot reiterate to you the craziness of this cow. For serious. As a woman (and a feminist) I wanted to beat her with a crow bar. So I definitely felt for the guy when he was dealing with her. And I wanted him to succeed with his other relationship. The girl from the plane (of course).

The overarching problem is that the novel is so inundated with sexual imagery that it's hard to tell if the main character is an unreliable narrator or the other characters are unreliable or not. It's like this bizarre world where you're bombarded with SEX!SEX!SEX!COCK!SEX!PUSSY!SEX! and then somebody asks you for bus fare and you're like "wait, there's a bus?" I mean, seriously. Every chapter. And each chapter is maybe three pages long. Either he's jerking off, thinking about jerking off, fucking something, getting blown, blowing something, talking about blowing something, talking about getting blown, thinking about fucking something, or playing Xbox. And it's so seamlessly natural that it works within the confines of the novel, but I was left wondering "wait, what?"

What I found saddest was that the main character's Girl of his Dreams ended up coming full circle with Casey the Crazy by the end of the novel. He got with the Dream Girl and she was perfect and then she wasn't and then he asked her to marry him in a fit of...what? Of "maybe she'll give me a blowjob?" Really?

Is that the overall theme? That the average american male is so sex obsessed that HE doesn't even have control over his life because he's so busy chasing his next blowjob?

Dude, that's kinda sad.

Quite possibly the coolest thing ever.

2009-10-29T15:26:55Z

Well, I know what I want for pre-order for Hanukkah.

Checkout the awesomeousity that is BARBIE PALM BEACH SUGAR DADDY KEN.

Yes, that is his real, Mattel given name. And yes, that is his real, Mattel given dog and pink, patent leather leash.

And holy, holy God, let's talk about the white shoes, white pants and pink polo shirt, shall we? He's part of the Gold Label collection and clocks in at only $81.99! He's for collectors! He's got brushed silver hair! And a WEST HIGHLAND TERRIER! But sweet Moses on a speed boat, don't forget the green jacquard sport coat! Those sleepy eyes are ready for a good time, girls...

I wonder if he's got sold separately accessories. Like a flashy red sports car. Or a speed boat. Or a kilo of Colombian blow.

Oy.

holy shit.

2009-10-20T00:21:26Z

True story, I have no appreciation for Bob Marley. College sorta over-exposed it out of me. I know the Gypsy Kings covered a bunch of his stuff and that was pretty cool, but other than appreciating him as a political figure and where he fits into Rasta culture, I could care less, seriously.

However, I defy you to not appreciate the coolness that is this video.

From the website:

playingforchange.com - From the award-winning documentary, "Playing For Change: Peace Through Music", comes an incredible rendition of the legendary Bob Marley song "One Love" with Keb' Mo' and Manu Chao. This is the third video from the documentary and a follow up to the classic "Stand By Me" and the incredible "Don't Worry." Released in celebration of Bob Marley's birthday on February 6th, this tribute to the legend is performed by musicians around the world adding their part to the song as it traveled the globe.

And the fangirl in me geeked out when I saw Keb' Mo' (I don't think he was credited--but he's the old black man rockin out in the newsboy hat and the beat up guitar). What can I say, I love an old blues man.

But yeah, take a few minutes, listen to the lyrics, watch the video, and I defy you to not sway in your seat with the music.

Pity the fool

2009-10-18T22:19:11Z

Dear Robert Pattinson (RPatz to your fans):

Full disclosure, I've started this letter off at least three times in my head and each time it began "I hate your stinking guts" or "you make me vomit" or thereabouts. But I realized maybe I was being a little unfair and decided to reign in my particular brand of raging sewer harpy. I started thinking about exactly why you make my teeth itch, that's adult, right? I mean, sure, you don't bathe. You do look like an furry-headed candy corn (cause you're head's all triangular). And your overall, broody brand of emo-surliness does not a good actor make.

But none of these things are really your fault.

Except the not bathing thing. Dude, you've got to see to that. Even the cro-mag male beat his fur against a rock. Maybe you could...with your head... okay, okay, I can see how that would be bad.

I digress. None of these things are the "really real" reason, as my eleven-year-old cousin would say I can't stand you. The really real reason is simple: Twilight. Fucking Twilight. Dude, you were completely forgettable to anybody but the Harry Potter fans after the twenty minutes you were in that universe, but did you have to sign on for Twilight?

And there again, I can see how it arguably wasn't your fault. Back when it was just the first book and maybe New Moon, nobody really understood what a ~~scourge on the earth~~ phenomena Twilight was going to turn into. Sure, it had it's fans. But then, Harry Potter had fans. They weren't cutting themselves over Rupert Grint's pubic hairs or anything. So you signed on for three movies. I don't blame you. You're a "strapping lad", as the Brits say. ~~I can use English slang, I read Dickens.~~ You saw Kristen Bell and went "wow, she's hot", or, you know, however you guys say it. Probably has a word like "shag" or "knackered" in it.

But there were still those damn fans.

Those...whatdoyoucallem. Twihards. Hormonal bacchae, if you will. Willing to tear you limb from limb just to hear the sound of your voice, to steal the lisp from your lips, to catch a glimpse of your manly collarbones of truth--well you get the picture. I mean them's some scary bitches. And I know from scary bitches. I was thirteen once. I had my own crushes. I would cut a bitch over Isaac Hanson. True story. Of course, you never saw me making an entire family schlep to wherever the hell Hanson's from just so I could breathe the air of Oklahoma City or whatever (I have no idea how I pulled that city out of my ass to this day). But those ~~freaks of nature~~ Twihards are a different breed, man. They'll make their families go to Forks, WA for a family vacation and not think twice.

Want to know what's in Forks?

A shrine to Twilight.

And a zillion girls all worshiping at the altar of Edward Cullen and throwing out random Wuthering Heights quotes completely out of context. Not, you know, real Wuthering Heights quotes because that book is actual literature and while it's also badly written, it's badly written for a Victorian novel which means it's scads more intelligent than Stephanie Meyer will ever hope to be. So they quote Wuthering Heights as it was quoted to them in Twilight and have no idea that Heathcliffe was the original emo asshole.

I guess what I'm saying ~~Edward~~ Robert, is that I think I get you now. If I were you and I'd suddenly stepped into a cult phenomena that nobody really saw coming and I didn't necessarily wish on myself and while I didn't mind being a hearthrob in theory (because I'm a guy) I'd want to be a hearthrob for me, and not for, you know, a 109 year-old sparkly-vampire-virgin who is completely safe and will cuddle and kiss and pet and hold a girl for months but never, you know, try to stick it in because the peen is evil, I'd probably stop bathing too. I'd do exactly what you're doing. I'd call the writer of the series a bat-shit soccer mom MORMON who basically fanficced herself and tried to touch me inappropriately in the bathroom (not that you did that last bit, I'm just offering a suggestion). Like an abuse victim I'd try to appear unattractive so no one would want me and I too would fade into the wood work. I'd probably go Ancient Greek on their asses, shave my head, dress in sack cloth, and smear my face with ashes lamenting the sad state of...I don't know, something important. I'd become a sculptor wherein I collected different kinds of poo from varying species and unveiled these specimens at a chic gallery in SoHo and call it "Abstinence Means Doing Anal".

In short, RPatz, I'd make a point to very publicly loose my shit.

Pretty much what you're doing, only quicker and on a bigger scale.

So I'll close by saying I think I know where you're coming from a little bit. I have no idea if I'm right or not. But I feel for you man.

My condolences,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: did you know there's a Twilight dildo? I know where you can get some sack cloth for cheap. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

This is about who we are.

2009-09-30T00:36:38Z

Dear Directors, Producers, Agents, Actors, and Fucktards,

Roman Polanski is a rapist. He is. Just because Switzerland finally decided to arrest and extradite him does not mean he deserves a walk, nor does it mean he didn't do it. I get that it smarts. I mean, he was in Switzerland specifically to go to the Zurich film festival to get a lifetime achievement award (I actually appreciate the irony, "oh, you thought you were getting a gift? Too bad, enjoy your cell!" ) but to begin a campaign to free him, to add your name to a petition, to insinuate that he didn't do exactly what he pled guilty to isn't just immoral, it's actually pretty fucking stupid.

Especially if you're Woody Allen. Hey Woody, how's your ~~step-daughter~~ wife?

Listen, I get that Roman Polanski had a tragic life. I cannot imagine what he went through as a child, he lost his mother to Auschwitz and he himself barely escaped the Nazis. There aren't words to losing your lover and your child at the same time to Charles Manson & Family. And I can even see how the former gave him a serious fear of authority and a persecution complex. This does not, however, excuse him from committing a crime. A few crimes, actually, but he pled to the one so the others would be forgotten.

This is what Roman Polanski, your hero, did: he took pictures of a thirteen-year-old girl--those pictures were topless and/or completely nude. He said they were for French Vogue, but if he hadn't said that, then wouldn't that be, oh, I don't know kiddie porn? He then gave said thirteen-year-old an endless supply of champagne and a third of a qualude. Other news outlets are calling it a sliver, but frankly there's a big fucking difference between a sliver and a third. Call a spade a spade. He then got into a hot tub with the girl while they were both naked. She, being appropriately skeeved out, said she was having an asthma attack and had to go home. He ignored her. They ended up back in the house (owned by Jack Nicholson), whereupon he put his face in her vagina even though she said no. He then proceeded to have intercourse with her. She said no. He asked her if she was on The Pill. She said no. He asked her when her last period was. She said she didn't remember. Mind you, this is all while he's fucking a doped up adolescent who asked him repeatedly to stop. When she said he couldn't remember when her last period was, he then sodomized her so she wouldn't get pregnant. The entire time this is going on, she's saying no, and asking him to stop and take her home. Needless to say, he ignored her.

That my friends is rape. It's not a little rape. It's not maybe rape. It's not even "rape". It's fucking rape. The man raped a thirteen-year-old girl. I don't care if he's Moses. He raped her. He might still be a talented film-maker, but rapist is on his resume.

He was indicted and charged and pled to "sex with a minor" which is basically statutory rape. Why? Because he knew if he didn't plead to something he'd be convicted of something worse. Then, before he could be sentenced he skipped town. For thirty fucking years.

This is not the action of a man who believes himself to be innocent. This is the action of a coward. Who rapes thirteen-year-olds.

Then, knowing if he set foot in the United States he'd be facing jail time, he went and had a merry old time in Europe, living the high life in Paris, traveling to basically any country that didn't have an extradition treaty with the United States, making movies, and giving the girl a settlement when she sued him (because he raped her). Also, he played the victim rather nicely the entire time.

And he continued to make movies.

When he filmed Lolita (irony of ironies), he famously said of his relationship with Natasha Kinski--then only 15 herself--"I don't know why you're surprised. I thought you all knew I liked them young." If that isn't a blatant disregard for the fucking law then I don't know what is.

Even if you don't want to acknowledge that the man's a rapist, you have to acknowledge the fact that he's been living on the lam. There's a reason the man hasn't been back to the United States. Because he'll be arrested for skipping town. Sad, but true. And you're right, he did already plead guilty to the rape. So he's pretty much going to be charged with bail-jumping or whatever. Good. He should be in prison.

For a while there were rumors of judicial misconduct and the possibility of an appeal. This would have happened, the LA District Attorney was even willing to let it happen. But Roman refused to show up at trial. So it didn't. He had his chance.

Now a lot of you are saying that because the talented artist's victim wants to let it all go, water under the bridge, blah blah blah the rest of us should too. But that's stupid. For two reasons, one, he broke the law and he should be held accountable finally, and two, because it sets a horrifying president to force victims to forgive their aggressors so the aggressors won't have to go to jail. "But my son [Chris Brown?] would never do that. You should forgive him [Rihanna?] because it's just not in him to do that bad thing [beat you like it's Mario Cart?]"

See? That makes everybody uncomfortable. Except Hollywood. Because it's been a tragedy that Roman Polanski couldn't work there while he was in exile eating dry bread and expensive cheese off of gold plated dishes in his big shiny mansion in Paris. It's a horror that he's faced vilification by his peers. Even though they hid it well by giving him an Oscar and a standing ovation a year or so back. It's an unthinkable mess that he had to accept said Oscar in absentia because he'd be arrested.

Want to know how you don't get arrested?

You don't break the fucking law.

Want to know what I think is a tragedy?

That a little girl has to deal with the scars of being raped and sodomized by a man who she was supposed to be able to trust.

That at the time Angelika Houston, who I normally love, had the nerve to say "I don't think he's a bad man, I think he's a sad man" when she was in the house for part of the time.

That people are still throwing out the tired bullshit that the girl was a Lolita or her mom was a bitch. It. Doesn't. Matter.

The girl said no.

No halfway decent mother would want her child exposed to that.

Also, the age of consent in California was sixteen. It's now eighteen. The girl was thirteen. That means she couldn't legally consent even if she had been sober. Roman Polanski broke the law.

So many people today lament the fact that the idea of justice is relative. That Justice is not color blind, or class blind, or opposed to taking the occasional bribe. I'm one of them. I can't think of a person who hasn't complained that the rich have a different set of rules. And so far, that idea has proven true. And when you think about it, Hollywood is lamenting the same thing. Only they're doing it from the opposite side of the argument. I want Roman Polanski arrested because, as a rapist, he deserves it. They want him let off because, as an artist, he doesn't. The problem is, Roman Polanski does deserve justice. Unfortunately for you people Justice for Roman Polanski is a prison sentence.

Cordially,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: This is what a rapist looks like:

Well deep fry that and cover it in awesome-sauce!

2009-09-22T13:20:45Z

Dear Fashion Industry*,

I just want to take a minute to tell you how amazingly cool I think you are. I mean, I know we've had our differences in the past, and you might have felt that I was being a little bit bitchy to indict the entire industry as a hole for something as trivial as airbrushing (because let's be honest, everybody does it and nobody should be penalized for making someone look as young and teensy as possible) but I've seen the light. I have. Also, I was on my period that week and eating way too much chocolate. So, you know, hormones. Also, I think I was a little upset because I missed a bikini wax. I can't remember, I'm on this new diet where I only eat three crackers and one cup of water a day and my memory's a little hazy. But damn am I dropping the pounds!

Anyway, after hearing about the goings on over at London Fashion Week I had to send you a note letting you know about bygones and how we're buds now. Seriously, how terrific is it that when Mark Fast tried to put some "plus size models" on his runway somebody quit in protest and somebody else was fired? I mean, first of all, can we just call them cows? Oh, and while we're at it, can we be sure that if they have to be seen in public, we're going to put them in something that's two sizes too small with underwear that cuts them a new waist line? Because that'll ensure that they look truly craptacular in the dress and nobody is going to want to hire "that girl" to be seen with, well, normal people.

You know, this is what has made me want to be in fashion. I think you are one of the only industries in the world (second only to Women's Clinic nurses and technitions) who can look at your job description and then refuse to do it. Do you know how much I would like to get told by my boss that I had to prepare some project for a big event wherein hundreds of people are going to be looking and go "you know what? I don't feel like it today." And still be golden. That's just...astoundingly avante garde.

I mean look at that girl! She looks miserable. And she's in a fashion show! She's not just normal, model miserable. She's actually miserable. How does she get off feeling that way when she's wearing a designer dress and killer shoes? I mean sure, the dress is too small, you wouldn't let her wear a bra so we can all see her nipples, and her thong is digging into her hips in a way that can't be comfortable, but she's being allowed to walk with skinny people. I mean, what do us fatties think, that we should be allowed to wear clothes that fit or something? The absolute nerve.

I mean, okay, so granted I've got a sneaking suspician that Mark Fast doesn't so much care about plus sized models as he does about selling his clothes. I mean, the controversy over the fashion-savvy staffer who just up and quit rather than tell those girls where the freaking lipstick was is sure making headlines and making sure people know his name. Likewise, having to fire another stylist for straight up passive aggressive, bitchy behavior is enough to make me want to check out his website. I mean, he cared enough to make sure those girls were treated with respect. Even if, you know, he couldn't give them clothes that fit. So Mark Fast is officially off my myspace buddy list. I mean, how dare he. It's like those fatties expected to be treated like people or something.

This is the thing, bottom line: plus sized models shouldn't be around regular sized models. Anybody who was in that audience will tell you that everybody was uncomfortable when those girls walked out--they looked miserable and their clothes didn't fit. So double props to you, fashion industry for making an example of those girls and being sure that everybody knows that curves have no place on the runway.

I'll let you know how my diet works out.

Love and awe,
Scarlett the Harlot

*If you think for one minute I've gone over to the dark side and this letter is anything but absolute sarcasm then why are you reading this blog? Obviously hunger and dehydration have made you delirious. Go eat a cookie.

What are we if we don't have our stories?

2009-09-22T01:29:08Z

When I was a kid I used to put on this turquoise dressing gown from the seventies (it had ruffles at the cuffs, collar and the hem and because I was nine it trailed behind me like a train of awesome) and sit in my rocking chair three feet from the television and watch musicals. I thought that turquoise dressing gown, coupled with a ruffly top/high-cut-shorts combo teddy thing made me look tres chic and beyond sexy. In retrospect I think I looked like a twee Ms. Hannigan from Annie.

Anyway, I would sit and watch these stories and rock and rock and rock and transport myself to another place. I would say the lines of the character I wanted to be, sing songs with her, and completely rewrite the story in my head so it wasn't so saccharine and Broadway-ish. I would imagine the main characters and wonder what happened to them when the camera panned away. When the audience wasn't watching.

Did Anna and the King have an illicit affair?

Did Maria find out about the Captain's hidden kink? I mean really, there had to be a reason why he was so attached to that whistle.

I drove myself crazy with these thoughts. And then there was fanfiction.

One of the things I love about this new fiction genre, Fiction Retold, is it's basically Publisher sanctioned fanfiction. I mean, nobody ever tries to rewrite the novel of somebody still living (except maybe the continuation of the Godfather series) but you end up with things like Mr. Darcy's Daughters and Wicked and God knows what else.

And while they're cool, they never really recapture my wild childhood thoughts because they're just continuing the same story, aren't they?

Enter Eileen Favorite's The Heroines.

The basic premise of this novel is simple: literary figures somehow pop out of their respective novels and end up at this boarding house in Middle America. The main character didn't make this happen, her mother did, and it's been happening since before the main character, Penny, was born. Penny's met all sorts of heroines from all sorts of books and her mother is pretty hardcore about making sure that Penny (and she) don't fuck up the stories by telling them too much about what theyr'e going back to or trying to change their worldviews. Also, the heroines don't always show up at the end of the story, they show up whenever they feel like it. So, you could be looking at Daisy right after she finds out Gatsby's alive, or Alice just after she's tasted the magic mushrooms. Also, the novel's set in the 70's.

It diverged pretty quickly from where I thought it was going to go. In a really awesome way. I figured it was just going to be a novel about heroines in their off time and the main characters were going to be vehicles for the author to wax poetic about getting Scarlett O'Hara and Daisy Buchanan in the same room (you KNOW Scarlett would'a stomped that vapid ho). Not so much. Pretty soon in the novel the author deals with the reality of the situation. What happens if someone who had this bizarre power started spouting off to the outside world that they have this bizarre power? Even if it's true?

She's completely realistic about it, she argues all the salient points from every angle, and even the non-literary characters are pretty cool, if a little flat. Actually, the cast of characters is so large that sometimes they all seem a little flat. Favorite sticks with the characterizations of the lit figures their original authors have gone with--and of course she would--why fuck that up? And her original characters all seem to be spending their time reacting to the literary figures rather than acting their own stories. Which, I guess is the point.

When Penny winds up in the nuthouse (I don't consider this a spoiler, you can get it from reading the table of contents) it's funny that you never doubt her as a reliable narrator. She's never not told the reader the truth. If anything, everyone around her is unreliable--especially the staff. The problem that I had with it was because Penny's story seemed to be a sidetrack to the larger story, she spent most of her time reporting. Telling rather than showing is effective when you've got to spend pages of exposition to fill your reader in (because I get that sadly not everybody knows who Catherine from Wuthering Heights is) but I would have been so much happier had I been given a few real scenes with the doctor and the nurse. In the greater scheme of the story they seemed like the real villains, not the guy who was set up as the Heroine's Villain.

Midway through the book it becomes obvious that Penny herself is a heroine. Not just because she's the main character and she's surmounting the impossible, but because of the nature of the events unfolding around her. Unfortunately, Favorite has Penny so busy reporting on what the other "real" Heroines and Heroes and Villians are doing that Penny's own observations seem like afterthought. The story is told from the point of view of a thirteen year old narrator. But the narrator often throws out "I found out later"s, or "I didn't know then, but"s, which means that the omniscient narrator is much older. So why not break down what Penny's going through? Talk about her turmoil about being attracted to the Villain over the Hero. Why not? It's really Penny's story after all.

I really liked that Favorite chose a relatively obscure Heroine to go with for the broad story. I think it would have been much less believable if she'd gone with someone like Jane Eyre. I even liked how it ended. I just feel like while the main character was supposed to be thirteen, she didn't feel thirteen, which was a little unfortunate. If Favorite had aged her up maybe she would have been more able to dissect her feelings.

Anyway, overall it's a surprising read and I'm recommending it to anyone who likes classic literature. It's chick lit, but not in the Bridget Jones way. More in the Mr. Darcy, you're so naughty way. Come on, we've all been there. And I didn't even like that book.

...

2009-09-12T18:09:28Z

I just got finished watching The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.

Not going to lie, I tend to collect WWII movies. Mainly because I like the clothes and the music. I've never been this moved by one before.

Just... there aren't words.

Wha...?

2009-09-01T15:55:54Z

Because, obviously what little girls need is a pole-dancing doll.

And yet, when I say little girls are being sexualized at too-young ages (what with the padded bras, thongs, and makeup peddled to them via Bratz) I get blank stares and the Scary Feminist With No Sense of Humor label.

Does anybody else think it's truly bizarre that the doll looks like a miniature Jackie Kennedy?

I'm a bit late on this one. Forgive me, I had to cool down.

2009-08-23T23:15:48Z

Dear Fashion Industry,

It's me again. I know you're surprised to hear from me considering the last time we had words. It wasn't pretty, I'll admit it. And it's hard to look someone in the eye after they've basically told them to sit on it and rotate. I know. I feel for you. But I'm back. This time with links.

What I'm talking about is the recent hullabaloo over the September issue of Self Magazine and Kelly Clarkson.

For those of you looking at that cover and saying "Wow, Kelly looks great." I think you should know, that's not Kelly Clarkson. That is a digitally enhanced image of Kelly Clarkson. This is Kelly Clarkson:

Self shaved, tucked, slimmed and hid the real Kelly to make a pretty cover. Note the obvious size differences in the upper arms, the chin, and the way they stuck a big circle over her ass to hide, well, her ass. And they're proud of it. To hear Lucy Danziger tell it (Lucy's an editor at Self and the blogger who's entry you'll read if you click that link) they love Kelly's "style" and her "love of her body" and her "joie de vivre", which is a bit strange considering they Photoshopped all that right out of that picture. One of hte awesome things about Clarkson is the way she embraces who she is and rocks her body and wears great clothes no matter what her size. Self had the ability to truly showcase that. Instead they chose to hide behind the bizarre idea that "a cover tells a story". To which I find myself asking, "what story exactly?" If I look at that cover, the story I'm seeing is a picture of a faux Kelly next to a REALLY BIG AD for how to slim yourself down. Oh, and a thing at the bottom about body confidence.

More troubling, if you continue reading that convuluted excuse for a lie that is Lucy Danziger's blog entry she goes on to say that she photoshops her own pictures if she's going to be say, sharing them with her peers. What the hell does that say about the industry in which she works and what shes' been made to think about herself. Should she really be working for a magazine that's supposed to be ostensibly about finding yourself or gaining self esteem or whatever it is Self even stands for?

Airbrushing in the fashion industry is certainly nothing new. I think my generation especially has internalized the idea that beauty standards are impossible to such an extent that not even the models can live up to them. Of course we know that the cover shot isn't really what that woman looks like. Remember when Faith Hill was on the cover of Redbook and they basically erased her face? At the time, Jezebel did a truly hilarious, and truly depressing, breakdown of the pictures. In fact, airbrushing has been around so long they don't even airbrush anymore. Now, because we're in the digital age they do something totally different with a Raster image editor. Anyhoodle, you're they fashion police so you already know all this. My point is that the problem has become so pervasive that certain political parties have started to get involved.

Not in this country of course. America's too busy being afraid of fat and old age. No, but in Great Britain, Parlimant is talking about making advertisements have disclaimers if they've been airbrushed specifically so we'll know we're not looking at the real thing. Think about what that would mean for a second--instead of seeing pretty, perfect Tyra Banks or Jennifer Love Hewitt on the cover of whatever magazine and being completely appalled when we see them on the beach in the tabloids. Why? Because the tabloid picture is the real, candid shot. That's what they really look like after all.

But you people. I swear.

Okay, so in response to the whole British Parliament/Photoshop Disclaimer thing, Nigel Barker felt the need to weigh in:

The reason why talent in the modeling industry is so young is because of this desire to have flawless-looking women. But with good retouching, you can have older-looking women working longer. You can show her maturity, but perhaps you don’t show every wrinkle and line. What you are seeing are older models having longer careers that they never would have had because of retouching.

Really Nigel? You're going to make it sound like you're doing the models a favor? Wow. That's big of you I guess. But I find it really fucking douchey of you to claim that you (the fashion industry) have no control over what goes on the covers of magazines or what is deemed hot or attractive. I call serious shenanigans.

Do you remember a while back there was a little book published called The Devil Wears Prada? Remember how the story was the writer was actually an assistant to Anna Wintour, head fashion editor at Vogue and Goddess of Garb? Remember how Anna's PR people denied that she was a bitch to work with but she still showed up at the premier of the movie wearing Prada? My point here is that in that movie, based on the book, based on reality, there was this gem of an exchange between Andy the Assistant and fashion hick and Miranda the Garb Goddess:

Miranda Priestly: [Miranda and some assistants are deciding between two similar belts for an outfit. Andy sniggers because she thinks they look exactly the same] Something funny?
Andy Sachs: No, no, nothing. Y'know, it's just that both those belts look exactly the same to me. Y'know, I'm still learning about all this stuff.
Miranda Priestly: This... 'stuff'? Oh... ok. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room. From a pile of stuff.

In all honesty I hate quoting a tell all but there it is. You people control everything. You know you do. Maybe not Nigel Barker personally, he's too pretty and he's just a shutterbug, but if Anna fucking Wintour suddenly decided that size was sexy and put Steve Tyler's other daughter on the front cover of her magazine without making her go on a crash diet to get down to 150 pounds (like she did Oprah--true story, look it up) then trust me when I tell you other magazines would follow suit. Suddenly plus size would be in. Kate Moss would be out of work. Young girls wouldn't feel like they had to go on a diet in the third fucking grade. I could find clothes that actually fit in straight sizes. There would be dancing in the streets.

It wouldn't be considered politically subverssive to be fat.

How fucking bizarre is that?

Here are a few statistics for you:

It is estimated that 8 million Americans have an eating disorder – seven million women and one million men
One in 200 American women suffers from anorexia
Two to three in 100 American women suffers from bulimia
Nearly half of all Americans personally know someone with an eating disorder (Note: One in five Americans suffers from mental illnesses.)
An estimated 10 – 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are males

Upset yet? Well how about these:

Anorexia is the 3rd most common chronic illness among adolescents
95% of those who have eating disorders are between the ages of 12 and 25
50% of girls between the ages of 11 and 13 see themselves as overweight
80% of 13-year-olds have attempted to lose weight

Or these:

Rates of minorities with eating disorders are similar to those of white women
74% of American Indian girls reported dieting and purging with diet pills
Essence magazine, in 1994, reported that 53.5% of their respondents, African-American females were at risk of an eating disorder
Eating disorders are one of the most common psychological problems facing young women in Japan.

Here are some celebrities that have been diagnosed with eating disorders:

Paula Abdul

Justine Batemen

Karen Carpenter

Nadia Comaneci

Susan Dey

Jane Fonda

Tracey Gold

Elton John

Jamie Lynn-Sigler

Cherry Boone O’Neill

Barbara Niven

Alexandra Paul

Princess Di

Lynn Redgrave

Kathy Rigby

Joan Rivers

Jeannine Turner

But lets remember that's certainly not a complete list. The Hollywood/fashion culture breeds weight obsession. Remember that book Skinny Bitch that came out a while back (and has had a few sequels) that was all about going vegan and losing weight and the horrors of the meat packing idustries? Read it a little closer. Those women exhibit some scary obsessions with things like bowel movements and food planning that are hallmarks for eating disorders. Just because it's not diagnosed doesn't mean it's not there.

You have a ridiculous amount of power. Yet you refuse to see anything but your own incredibly marginalized beauty ideal. When Rachel fucking Zoe is complaining that she misses a time when women looked normal you know you've got a problem on your hands. Or pretty soon you'll have nothing but twelve-year-olds working for you. Or maybe that's your intention.

Get therapy.

Scarlett the Harlot

Just because you are blind, and unable to see my beauty doesn't mean it does not exist.

2009-08-23T17:13:47Z

I think that if pressed, or even asked nicely, every fat girl (and guy) has at least one story to tell where the outside world has made them feel like complete and utter shit for even existing. We're the side kicks. The comic relief. We're a-sexual fashion accessories for skinny friends, like the Gay-Boy Best Friend ™ or the Sassy Friend of Color ™ who dispenses sage advice and the occasional bitch slap where appropriate. Incidentally, any and all of these stereotypes can bleed into one another depending on the time, setting, and dress code.

Personally I can tell you I've had family members (who were, ironically just as large or larger than I was) tell me to stop eating because the food would go straight to my ass, I've had strangers off the street ask me if I'd ever considered Weight Watchers, I've felt rage at the fashion industry, and I've had to wear my grandmother's clothes in the sixth grade because that was the only thing that would fit me. So I'm a little aware of America's diet-centric culture and exactly how it relates to me specifically for good or evil.

Now, some would say that we in America are obsessed with our Causes. We've got civil rights, womans' rights, gay rights, and we've also got the fat acceptance movement, although I'm only just now hearing about it and I'll bet you probably haven't seen it blaring on your television either. Apparently it's been around since the 1960's. But in our thin-obsessed culture is it any wonder that CNN isn't wanting to have it's leaders talk about their beliefs? Of course not, CNN is too busy pushing the obesity epidemic.

Obviously I'm still a little bitter.

Okay, so by chance I stumbled upon this great community called fatshionista a few months ago. They're obivously big believers in fat acceptence. Through that community I heard about awesome bloggers Marianne Kirby and Kate Harding. Now Marianne and Kate have written a book.

One of the first reviews I saw on amazon.com for this book was titled "This book got me to date!" Now if that isn't one helluvan endorsement I don't know what is. So I picked up the book and figured 'what the hell, we'll see how it goes'.

It's being touted as revoluntionary and amazing and terrific and genius and that's just the amazon customers.

You know, I wish I could say I hated it. I wish I could say I read this book and thought to myself "these bitches don't know me, this message is going to be bullshit". Hell, I wish I could say I didn't, upon finishing the book, promptly add both writers to my blogroll. But I can't. I didn't. I won't. I think the thing that's so upsetting about being fat is that we ALL have the same experiences. None of us are special and unique snowflakes. But because we're largely ignored we're set up in these little velvet, mental obliettes of our own making.

Now, don't get me wrong, I do not see myself and every fat person on the planet as victims. But I do think we've all experienced a butt load of hurt for not looking like we're "supposed" to. And if we all sat down and started comparing notes we'd be shocked at how much we can identify with someone else because all our lives we've been made to feel apart, alone, Other. That's why this book was so shocking and revolutionary to me. Because every story, every annectdote, every analogy and metaphor I identified with. Right down to the exclamation points. There were times where the authors called themselves and the readers out, "now I know you're not going to believe this" or "now I know you don't want to believe this" and yup, there was me like a little dancing monkey.

After years of feeling like nobody could understand where I'm coming from it's deeply unsettling to suddenly see my experience, but in someone elses words, on paper. My first instinct was to not review the book. Or to say "these bitches don't know shit". And I'm still struggling with that. But thing is, they do. The thing that I love is that not a damn bit of it is descriminatory. I mean, obviously it 's written for fat people. The statistics and facts are for fat people. But its principles could just as easily be applied to, say, a skinny person, or a too-tall person, or a too-short person, or any other marginalized person you could think of. It's not just Fat Acceptance. It's Acceptance, period.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I've discovered the Fat Jesusitas of the Millenium. But I do believe this is a book that should be read and read widely. The advice is sound, it never once makes you feel bad about yourself or like you should put down the cookie, and if after reading it you're not just the teensiest bit more confident for having picked it up then I'll mail you my copy because obviously yours is missing a page or two.

Buy this book.
Buy this book.
Buy this book.

Damn.

2009-08-13T18:50:49Z

Les Paul died.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

2009-08-11T20:48:29Z

And it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye. ~Miss Piggy

Here's the thing: unlike most women of my generation I didn't like Sex and the City. I was sortof offended by He's Just Not That Into You''s message of "just be a bitch and you'll get a guy", somehow hidden in the mantra "don't waste the pretty". So color me a little biased when my new book club that I just joined a week ago (and had three days to read their chosen book) told me their assigned book was How to be Single by Liz Tuccillo, an editor of Sex and the City and co-writer of He's Just Not That Into You.

To quote Carrie, "There is a God. And he's got a wicked sense of humor."

Now I know you shouldn't judge an author by their previous works. And I try not to. But it's hard to ignore a cultural phenom like Sex and the City. Liz Tuccillo doesn't. I think it's actually pretty funny, and it says something about the impact of that show when the main character of hte book is interacting with some random chick in Beijing and this random chick goes, "Oh, I love Sex and the City, I am Samantha!" and rather than sounding like a shameless plug for the writer's other work, it sounded like eight different ice breaker conversations I've had in bars myself.

Not that I didn't feel like it wasn't a shameless plug, because I did and it made me laugh. That's the thing about this book. It feels like it's trying to be Sex and the City but it's also trying to be smarter than Sex and the City. The narrator was downright judgemental. Not just about her female friends (the other main characters) but about herself too. She's fully aware that they're all going about their singlehood in the wrong way, she doesn't particularly have any answers and she doesn't particularly want to find any. The plot of the book is pretty utopian, in a Sweet Valley High sense: smart publicist decides she's sick of her 9-to-5 and pitches a book to her boss, her boss gives her an advance (though not huge) on the spot and publicist immediately quits her job and sells her shit so she can travel the world, stuff manages to fall into place and she's able to always have a good friend in every city and everywhere she goes people are falling all over themselves to tell her about what it's like to be single in their area. Oh, and she's also banging this really hot French guy who happens to have an open marriage and who happens to fall in love with her in a way he's never fallen in love with one of his mistresses before. No. Really. Cause that happens.

There were a few minor things about the writing style that threw me. A lot of the book felt like the author was more of a blogger than a writer. It's hard to really pin down exactly what this style means, but basically I think her writing is too informal. One of the hallmarks of Chick Lit (I hate that phrase) is that it's approachable, but one of the things that I like about fiction is that it still uses language. I just recently had a conversation with a person about how you can actually lose a friend over a text message because the langauge is so bland and my response was "that's why grammar's so fucking important!" and she looked at me like I was her ninety-year-old, eighth grade english teacher,but you know what's it's true. Grammar tells you how the writer meant the sentence to be read and while I love the blogging style because it's stream of conscience means the "you write like you talk" ethos is all approachable and junk it's for the internets--not for the page. And while we're on the minor quibble, grammar meme--all caps freak me out. There were a few places where her main characters were having fights and they were SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER IN ALL CAPS LIKE THIS AND I DID'T REALIZE UNTIL I SAW IT HOW MUCH I DIDN'T LIKE IT IN PUBLISHED FORMAT. BLOGGING IS ONE THING---BOOKS ARE ANOTHER. THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE, THIS IS SOME UPSETTING SHIT. Just sayin'.

One of the girls in my book club pointed out that the book was supposed to be satire. I'm not sure if that's true or not, but part of me hopes so because if so it adds depth to an otherwise shallow piece. The characters were well fleshed out, but they were still resoundingly flat, if that makes any sense, charicatures of archetypes. You've got the smart one, the emotional one, the guru one (formerly the hippy), the soccer mom--now the single mom, and the narrator who is (we're led to believe) the centered one. Each character has her own shit to deal with and each character has her own amount of crazy time (that she deals with in her own archetypical way) Example: the soccer mom goes stark raving pyscho loony in the middle of Whole Foods and the guru gets her stomach pumped, then shaves her head and takes a vow of celibacy. While the characters do change and grow, they're not really real they're just...characters. I kept getting the feeling they were placeholders for when Liz could say what she really wanted to say.

Take the "love story" between the narrator who's name I've already forgotten and the Frenchman who's married. When they first meet one of the first things out of his mouth is "American women are obsessed with weddings." Then she gets on her moral high horse about him being married and yet she's still got the hots for him and it leaves her feeling guilty so when he suggests she go to Rome of COURSE she goes and then she runs into him there and of COURSE they end up screwing and then she runs away and somehow he tracks her down in Rio and then they end up together in Bali and he's all whispering sweet nothings and he's basically telling her he's leaving his wife and you've got all this great dramatic tension and suddenly it's over and our Lady Liz is cutting it off and just... blah. Why? Because American women love weddings.

See? Satire. Not.

Hahahahahahahahaha

2009-07-20T15:23:11Z

I grew up on the beach. This made me laugh a lot.

Also, go visit twolumps.net

I do it the hard way.

2009-06-26T03:30:07Z

I have a new obsession. It's this great little blog by two girls who embrace their love of the romance novel. They write really intelligent, spot on reviews and I've yet to pick up a book that they gave a grade of "B" or higher and not been impressed.

On the flipside, when they dis a book that's also usually completely spot on and the two books (so far) that I've read because they said they sucked are so horrible that it borders on the laughable.

Case in point, Maverick by Lora Leigh. Sarah got maybe fifty pages into it and quite because it was so bad. I didn't believe ANY book could be that bad, so I bought it. And I just finished it. And I gotta tell ya--she was right. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know there are a LOT of horrible romance novels, but I've never read a published work (with the notable exception of anything written by Stephanie Meyers) that read like bad fanfiction.

Until I read Maverick by Lora Leigh. Lora Leigh is apparently a very prolific writer who's been published numerous times before this. Also, apparently her books are like crack to some people. And yet certain passages of this book were so horrendously, awesomely shit-tastic that I had to put the book down and laugh in stunned disbelief (and actual mirth at the unintentional humor) before I could pick it back up again.

Now, a wise man on the interwebs once said that a book shouldn't be judged by how "good" it is, but by how it makes you feel. So in all fairness it couldn't have been that bad because I did keep reading it and it did make my stomach do the jumpsies in a few places, but make no mistake--it was poorly written, it used every bad romance cliche out there, and quite a few stereotypes to boot.

So rather than write a regular review, I'm writing a helpful Top Ten for anyone interested in writing a decent piece of romantic fiction so hopefully they can learn from Miss Leigh's mistakes and this tripe will never be recreated in fiction again.

10. Using the wrong verb/constant repetition of certain choice words.

Example: On more than one occassion Miss Leigh has her male character "growling" at someone. Only, he isn't really growling. Because that's what dogs do. Also, because the situation doesn't necessarily warrant it. Specifically a few pages in, one of the main "Elite Ops" buggaboo types is teasing (or he should be teasing, I refuse to believe the line he uttered was meant in all seriousness) the main character guy. Dialogue goes as follows:

“She’s wounded, man. You can’t show her the killer face and expect her to trust you.”
Micah turned to look at him now. “The killer face?” he asked evenly.
“Yeah, that icy Mossad façade you’re wearing right now,” he growled.

(Emphasis mine)

First of all--Mossad facade. Seriously?! That's supposed to be serious?!

Second, could you say that line in all seriousness? And whilst growling? I thought not.

Example Two: When the characters are making the luuuuvs the main female character is always screaming. The main male character is always growling. That is some serious fuckage. Can't they break it up a bit? Maybe some whimpering, moaning, cries of ecstasy next time? Now don't get me wrong, I know women can scream during sex (I watch porn) and I've even engaged in a few vocal emmissions myself, but honestly if I screamed all the damn time I'd start to seriously reconsider what was going on with the sex. Because...yeah. I have neighbors who like to sleep through the night uninterrupted, just sayin'.

Example Tre: There are PLENTY of euphemisms for the penis. Likewise the vagina. However, Lora Leigh seems to be under the impresison that the only ones that work are "cock" and "dripping wet pussy". These words are serviceable, but after reading the same descriptor eight times in one paragraph I start to want to mix it up a little bit. "Dick", say, or "Alabama kingsnake" even, or hey, I'll even settle for the funniest euphemism in the history of euphemisms "horn of power"--I shit not, gentle reader.

9. Abandon all hope, all ye who expect fluid exposition.

There were numerous times in this book (during the sex scenes) where I had to stop reading to figure out exactly what they were doing. I mean, I knew what the author said they were doing, but it was unclear as to what position they were doing it in. Or, how they got from the door to the bed because the book never farking SAID. No joke, one scene in particular I practically had to draw myself a diagram to figure out what was going on and even then I was a little confused.

If your readers start wondering if you've ever actually had sex when you're writing teh seks, you've got a problem, lady. Also, I'll thank you to quit making references to anal. If your main characters ain't gonna do it, then quit making it sound like the best way to show everlasting love is with butt seks. It's cool and it's fun for all involved but nobody likes a cock tease.

8. Know your fucking characters.

If you say your character's background is Mossad, fine, he's Mossad. Who am I to quibble, I'm not writing the book. HOWEVER I suggest you do a little research into Mossad as an organization other than an episode or two of NCIS (not that I don't love that show--marry me, Mark Harmon!) and the understanding that Mossad agents are "the best agents in the world" and "tough as nails". Yeah. They're tough. They're taught to withstand a lot of shit. It's an awesome intelligence agency (all of which I gleaned from watching NCIS, fuck off) but there's more to it than that I'm sure. Actually I can tell just by skimming the wikipedia entry.

And for God's sake if you're going to set up the plot so that the Elite Ops team can't marry or have relationships or whatever, then the least you could do is keep it fucking consistant and refrain from having EVERY CHARACTER CLOSELY ASSOCIATED with the Elite Ops team married to The Best Woman Alive Who Isn't the Main Character. It gets confusing. Especially when you don't differienciate between those characters and your so called Elite Ops characters. I don't know who's who. But I know somebody can't be with somebody else even though half the main characters are married but there's no problem there. Contrived conflict isn't cool, yo, it's just contrived you jive turkey.

7. BELIEVABILITY IS KEY

I cannot stress this enough. Apparently Maverick is the last in a series. I didn't know this when I bought the book. And that's fine. But in order to establish plot, the writer did NOT need to have every starring character in all the other books show up at the club on the night that the two main characters were to come together like Peter Pan and his motherfucking shadow. It made no sense. Why was everyone conveniently in one location? Was it part of the Op? If it was then why the fuck were they putting their wives in danger? Why are the wives bestest buddies with the main female character? This last was never really explained well enough for me. Apparently the Elite Ops guys rescued the main squeeze (twice?) and they took pity on her six years ago and ever since have been encouraging her to hang out with teh womenz for...why exactly? We never know.

And when you're writing two villians for GOD SAKE make them easily distinguishable. In the first chapter we're introduced to Orion (dumbest villian name ever) who's a contract killer/CIA Agent who killed Maverick's mother six years ago (convenient time frame, ain't it). Well now he's out to kill the Main Squeeze (Risa) because his Employer (Villian #2) wants her dead. Okay, everything's hunky dory. Only when the Elite Ops guys start talking about Orion, his elusive Employer, and Risa the Main Squeeze and how they all relate it gets really confuzzeled and I spent about three quarters of the book trying to figure out if it was Orion that fucked Risa up or his Employer and who Risa was having nightmares about.

Which brings us to--

6. Rape as a plot device = Not Fucking Cool

I understand that rape happens. I understand that it happens so often it's used as a political tool. I believe that to exclude it from all media, movies, books, talk shows, etc is to deny it's existence and lull the general public into a weird limbo where it exists but it doesn't exist. In short, I acknowledge that because it exists in life, it must also exist in art.

However, I take supreme issue with anyone--and I mean anyone-- who uses rape simply as a plot device. That is- they throw it out there as something that happens, or something that is integral to a character's makeup, and then does nothing with it.

Risa the Main Squeeze was raped before she was a Main Squeeze. According to our author she was brutalized in the worst possible ways. And she consistently brings it up, has Risa have night mares, makes Risa have all the trauma symptoms, etc. But somehow all her trauma disappears when her Tru Wuv walks in the room. It's like there's a switch in her head so she goes from "God, I'll never be able to get that awful moment out of my head, he shoved me face down and ripped into my body while my dad laughed" to "wow you're gorgeous, let's do anal and I'll cry out in passionate ecstasy."

I have a serious problem with that.

5. Do not make your Main Character to much of a hero, sugar tits.

I get the romance novel trope that all heros are over the top. They're Fabio and Rhett Butler and John Wayne and Mark Wahlberg all rolled into one neat package. Oh, and their package is packed. But a hero can be too much. This one feeds directly into my "know your characters" gripe.

Take our Ex-Mossad Main Character, Micah. He's a badass ex-Mossad agent. He's a member of a Very Very Special Elite Ops Unit. He's gorgeous. Of course he's gorgeous, he's the lead in a romance novel, duh. He takes one look at the Main Squeeze and realizes he cannot live without her (which he fights because he's all macho--much as it pains him), just the thought of her makes him hard and aching, he cannot be in the room with her without touching her, he likes to antagonize her because even though she's had a troubled background he knows her shrink is wrong and she's not a wilting flower at all--she just needs someone to throw her against a wall and force her to face her demons, no really that's all true. It IS!

And while we're on the subject, how can a guy be Rock Hard all the time? Isn't that a sign of a serious illness? I mean, the viagra commericals say if an erection lasts more than four hours to seek medical attention. So, if he like, spends the night his dick'll go gangrenous? Seriously, I have to know!

Also, if you're going to be that much of a hard core badass you can't fucking cry. Sure, it's sensitive and shit, but you're not sensitive, you're a hardcore bad ass. You're heart can swell at your girlfriend's bravery all you want it to, you can run your fingers through her hair and marvel at her self control and strength and blabbity blah, but for Christ's sake keep it to yourself. That kind of emo nonsense is out of your realm. And it's most assuredly NOT going to be the reason why you choose to CRY in her PRESENCE. That's like rule number one in the Badass Hero Handbook (just above "wear tight jeans and carry a gun"): Thou shalt not fucking cry unless your main squeeze is fucking dead and you weren't there because you were raising cain three states away with your gun that you keep tucked in your tight jeans because it makes your previously breathing Main Squeeze all hot and bothered.

4. Don't make your heroine so much of a fucking victim that her coming together (biblically) with the Hero is out of the realm of the conceivable.

For serious, folks. Lora Leigh pulled out every possible bad thing that could have ever possibly happened to Miss Risa (with the exception MAYBE of her dog dying in front of her). Risa's mom died when she was ten. Her father was a monster who married a bitch who absconded with her mother's shit when her father was killed. Risa's father used her as a guinea pig in a very dangerous drug experiment that was basically a daterape drug that made the victim sexualy aroused and didn't leave your system fully until years after the fact so every time the victim was aroused it was made exponentially stronger because of the drug. Her father was emotionally abusive before he did the previous. He paid tohave her and two of her friends kidnapped for these experiments. He had her raped in front of him and he told her he had to pay the guy to do it because she was so ugly. He convinced her she was ugly. He had her shipped off to an asylum after she was rescued where he continued to perform illegal experiements on her. Now that her daddy's dead, the doctor who worked with him has taken out a contract on her life because she's starting to remember who he is and she's a liability. She hasn't had a date, or wanted to, since the incident six years ago but she suddenly decides to take her life back and start fucking something.

Everyone in the book comments on how she's not very pretty. Bordering on plain. The hitman, her father, and the good doctor, her friends, Micah the throbbing Hero, and Risa herself all talk at length about how ugly she is.

But our Hero is so aroused by her very presence that just the thought of her makes him have to readjust his shorts.

What. The. Fuck.

You can't have it both ways. Either the heroine is attractive or she's not. If she's not then why is the hero initially attracted to her at all? Because if you've never met a person your first attraction is always sexual. And talking about romance fiction as escapism for a second, what reader wants to read about a heroine that's not pretty? Especially when the heroine herself hides behind that ideology.

Then there's all the other stuff. Risa is supremely fucked up. She can't work outside her home. She rarely leaves her house unless she has to. She's fucking traumatized. But suddenly she's agreeing to play bait to catch the guy who's being paid by the guy who originally brutalized her and has her so scared she can't even meet a person's gaze head on?

But she's totally willing to fuck the life out of Mister Mossad because there's just this attraction. This is what I was talking about, about the bad fanfiction. I was waiting to find out Risa was a cutter.

3. Don't make your villains a Chinese menu of crazy.

Orion (stupidest name ever--I had to say that a second time) is apparently a freak. He's not just an elite assasin/ CIA Agent, he's also a sadistic fuck who enjoys recreated his mother's suicide in his female victims killings and jacking off in their faces while they die. We learn this in the Prologue.

And the Employer is also a creep who likes little girls and runs "scientific experiments' that would have made a Nazi Concentration Camp doctor blush and go "ew, sick man!"

Seriously, when your characters have so much going on that each individual detail is fighting for screen time, it's time to get rid of some stuff. Why not make the Employer the sadistic fuck and Orion the cold, calculating killer/CIA Agent you know he should be? Because apparently Orion also likes experiments and young girls.

2. Dangling plot bits.

If something is important enough to be in the fucking book, it's important enough to fuel the plot.

Risa is almost kidnapped, Risa scratches the shit out of Orion. The Ops team gets DNA. Only we never hear about it again.

The doorman to Risa's building is an important enough secondary character to be named and to be a benign older gent. I kept expecting him to be a villian. But was he? No. Because Lora Leigh had to contrive a way to throw the real villians at Risa in the last three chapters that only makes sense if you're okay with the group reunion from Chapter One.

The key to the case ends up being close to Micah. She's questioned by Micah (because he's all Mossad and their questioning techniques are legendary, remember) but he treats her like he's Johnny Carson and she's some random celebrity he has to drool over. The fuck. And then she disappears and we never hear from her again.

It's innuended that Micah might possibly get drunk and screw because he misses his Tru Wuv (you know, Risa) but that never fucking goes anywhere either.

In the author's note at the beginning of the book, Lora Leigh makes a point to talk about how much research she did into Micah's character and how much respect she now has for Judiasm, Hebrew, Israel, and Israelis in general. But then she never mentions Judiasm again accept to make a Magen David important, she uses the CHEESIEST Hebrew phrases in the history of the printed word, the only thing she knows about Israel is that it's got a desert (it's actually a quite diverse country--it's even got forests, dude, and cities that aren't Jerusalem and Tel Aviv) and she implies that Micah is indicative of Israelis everywhere when in fact he's like a bland cliff notes facsimile--like The Osmond family is the poster family for Mormonism.

1. Cliches, cliches, cliches.

Sure, romance novels are rife with them. But avoid them at all costs. Things like breaking a mirror because one is SO OVERCOME with GRIEF, for example.

Or giving your super-top-secret miltary bugaboos the absolute DUMBEST nicknames ever. Maverick. Black Jack. Live Wire. Hell Raiser. Wild Card. Heat Seeker

Likewise giving your CHARACTERS the dumbest names ever. Raven. Kell (that's a guy). Reno. Morganna (only works in middle ages/fantasy). Kira. Clive. Heinrick. ORION.

I'll grant you, on their own none of those names are particularly horrendous ('cept maybe Raven) but combined with the dumb nicknames and the rest of the piece it's just so over-the-top it's to be unbelievable.

When Micah is ripped away from Risa (as we knew he would be--the hero is ALWAYS pulled away from his love, momentarily) Lora Leigh pulls the ultimate fucking duh in plot twists to make it more poignant. And of course when the book ends it's supposed to make the happy ending that much more happier.

Only it doesn't. Why? Because cliches are annoying because they're over done. The mark of a good writer is a writer than can write a decent piece without having to rely on tired bullshit to jerk her audience around by their dripping tear ducts. Or whatever other dripping things they happen to have.

In short, I want my twelve hours back.

Out of the mouths of babes...

2009-06-02T17:20:44Z

"I've always thought Marilyn Monroe looked fabulous, but I'd kill myself if I was that fat."--Elizabeth Hurley

Dear Fashion Industry--

Fuck. You.

It wasn't enough that you had to set a completely unattainable beauty ideal--seriously, how is having the body of a ten-year-old-boy sexy?!--but now that you think you've got to spend a little extra money you're going to stop making "plus sized" clothing altogether? You've got to be kidding me. So what're we supposed to do? Walk around wearing potato sacks?

Listen, I get that there's a recession going on and things are expensive but take a minute to think about what you're saying when you've got the nerve to imply larger sized clothes cost more money because it takes more "yardage". Big girls aren't that big. Even those of us that are morbidly obese don't have to actually wear a circus tent. So things cost more money, why not add a few extra dollars to the price tag? Trust me when I tell you, we buy clothes. We have to. Public nudity's a crime. Especially for us apparently.

I don't think you realize what a chore it is to shop when you're not a regular size. It's not just the public humiliation of the dressing room, though there is that. It's having to dig through racks and racks of size 2's and under to find one article of clothing in my size. It's the annoyance at realizing the "plus size" section is actually also the maternity section. It's buying maternity clothes because they're actually more fashionable than "plus sized" clothes--what the hell is that Target? women who are only temporarily fat get to look cute, but those of us who are actually fat have to dress like somebody's grandmother?--it's knowing that even if we go to stores that are specifically for women that are our size we're going to have to pay $40 for a tee shirt when skinny girls can get the same tee shirt (only better made and better looking) for less than half the price at a pricey boutique.

And let's talk about "plus sized" fashion.

I sew. I know how to make my own clothes. And I know what looks good on my body type. So how come people that have a degree in drape seem to think the only way to make a full-figured body look good is with an empire waist? That doesn't look good on everybody and frankly, I don't like every single article of clothing in my closet being a "wraparound". It makes me feel like they don't make buttons big enough for me. And then there's the ruching, those little built in ruffles are only flattering for so long. And the dresses and shirts with the sewn in parts for the boobs. Lookit--I know where my boobs go, I don't need a cloth diagram. And frankly, sometimes my boobs are too big for those little cut outs. Do you know how tacky it is to wear a top with tit-ruching only your tits are flying south of the border? That's not sexy, that's sloppy. And we don't really have a choice because almost every jersey knit thing at Lane Bryant and Avenue has those kinds of things conveniently sewn in to give the appearance of... what exactly? We've already got boobs. Of course, ours are naturally big so they're not necessarily perky, but that doesn't mean we want to feel like we're sportin' cow udders, you know?

I understand that you're trying to run a business and you only care about your bottom line, but completely ignoring 56% of women is not a good way to go about it. Okay, a lot of working class moms with kids won't be interested in shelling out however much for Anne Klein, but they're not really your target demographic anyway, are they? I would say your target demographic is twenty to thirty something singles and professionals and frankly, I'm a twenty-five-year-old single professional who happens to be fat and would like to look amazing at work. Is your stuff pricey? Yes, but I'll pay it. Why? Because I'm single and I don't have a family to support so I'll have arguably more money than your average working-class housewife who's got three kids and a husband to dress. And because I've got to wear something and one pricey button-down is worth more to me than ten not-so-pricey button-downs from Wal-Mart that are going to shrink three sizes in the wash.

Actually, that's another thing. Just because you're making clothes for fats does NOT mean that you should buy cheaper fabric or skimp on design. If I pay $40 for a tee shirt from Lane Bryant, I don't want to throw it in the wash and find out that after one wear I have to give it to my skinny next door neighbor because it's shrunk so much I can't wear it. That's enough to make me not shop at Lane Bryant. So maybe you're seeing a cut in your money not from lack of people shopping, but from crappy product. Just a thought.

And speaking of crappy product, I'm fat not blind. You should be able to design a fun and flattering outfit for a fat girl without having to drip it in added embellishments. Lace and sequins and cameos and flashy metallic screen prints make it look cheap and like you weren't trying. Or worse, cheap and like you felt the need to cover me up, but you knew I wasn't going to buy a potato sack so you made it shiny. Because fat girl are like magpies or something.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're consumers too. Just because we don't fit your ideal body type (and frankly who does?) does not mean that we don't deserve respect. You've made it blatantly obvious through your products and your marketing (why are "plus size models" only size 8?!) that you think we're somehow less than. You've ignored us. You've given us crap not even our invalid maiden aunts would wear and we've had to buy it because we don't have another choice. You've chosen to believe that to be fat is to be shameful even though many of us are happy in our size and actually aren't trying to diet away our pounds.

For all this and more I say fuck you.

Yours,

Scarlett

I just... don't understand.

2009-06-01T13:57:06Z

On Sunday, May 31 2009 Dr. George Tiller was shot dead at his church--just as the service began.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dr. Tiller (Pro-lifers called him Tiller the Killer) he was one of only three late term abortion providers in the country. He'd been a target of right-wing groups for years because he insisted on providing care for women who needed it. His clinic was bombed, he himself was shot in both arms once before, and his family received numerous death threats. That's not counting, of course, the "petty" clinic vandalizations and protests he and his employees had to put up with on a daily basis.

This is major news. Check out what the NY Times has to say here, and various blog posts here, here, and here.

To be quite honest I don't know enough about the situation to accurately write about it here, and I don't think I could write eloquently on it anyway as I'm still too flabbergasted.

So instead I'll use this space to write about my own personal views on abortion and the pro-life crowd in general.

urbandictionary.com defines "pro-life" in a lot of different ways. This is just the first definition: An American political stance characterized by the belief that abortions constitute murder. Currently, America has legal abortions available to those who want and can afford them. Persons of the pro-life platform wish for abortion to be illegal. President Bush is pro-life.

You can read the rest here.

Here's the thing about pro-lifers though, they very rarely actually care about the mother, her situation, or anything other than the "save the babyz" mentality. This is why abortion rights are such a hot-button issue for me. When I was fourteen I was expected to attend church with my parents. Part of church was Sunday School and my Sunday School teacher, JC--I shit not, was very, very conservative. He was really opinionated and full of himself and he was hell bent on indoctrinating the rest of us to his way of thinking. One particular Sunday JC got up in front of the class and read an email he'd allegedly received from a woman who used to be a late-term abortion provider. It was a five page email and described in graphic detail exactly what late term abortion was--basically the mother giving birth, the doctor removing the baby and drowning it in a medical pan, or squishing his brains in with forceps, or injecting its little soft spot with some kind of something to kill it before it was delivered.

Now me, I couldn't take it so I got up and left after he got through the first page. I had to come back and rejoin the class if only to get my purse and when I returned I was extolled for having a "heart of flesh" and JC just knew that because I couldn't stomach those pro-choice atrocities I was going to become a great activist for the anti-choice crowd.

Not exactly. I was actually so disturbed that I had to leave just after Sunday School and couldn't really formulate an articulate response to him so I'm not sure even now if that email was even legit or not. Knowing what I know now about anti-abortion people and their manipulative ways, I'd guess it was a hoax but JC sure didn't seem to think so. I have no idea how the rest of the group felt about the reading because I didn't ask. But I will say that one experience was enough to turn me off to the right-wing way of thinking and Christianity in general. Mainly because I refuse to believe in a God that justifies the hatred and violence aimed at people for basically living their lives.

Now get me--I don't believe abortion is for everyone and I don't believe in killing babies for fun. However, I do believe that a woman's body is her own and she damn sure should be able to choose what she does with it.

Also, as a woman who has had a pregnancy scare or two, here's something else--pregnancy is huge. HUGE. Just thinking you're pregnant is enough to seriously derail even the best of plans and when you actually are pregnant and you know it's not right for you I think is singly one of the scariest things a woman will face. Don't believe me, guys? Pretend your girlfriend comes to you right now and says she's pregnant. You know that fear that hits you? Times it by a million and one and that's what your girlfriend is feeling. Why? Because for her it's not an abstraction--there's actually something growing inside her.

The decision to abort is rarely something a woman does lightly, if for no other reason than she can't do it lightly. Before abortion was legal women had to find doctors on the down-low and pay them exorbatant sums. They faced legal action, permanent injury, and in some cases death. Back then, abortion was fucking dangerous. Now, a woman can't just show up at a clinic and get service either. The laws state that she has to have a thorough exam, she has to meet with a counselor, she has to go through a sonogram, she will have to face the judgment of her care providers because under the Bush administration it was ruled fair and okay for a person who doesn't agree with abortion to work in an abortion clinic (explain to me how it makes sense for you to work in a place where you are allowed to refuse to do your job description), she might have to fight her way through a picket line. If I'm not mistaken it takes two visits. And it still ain't cheap. But it's legal and it's a helluva lot safer.

But it is by no means easy.

And this doesn't even cover the mental roller coaster she's going to be on, the arguments she'll have with herself, the second guessing, the tears, the self-judgement, the fucking shame.

But if she knows it's right for her she'll go through with it and she'll get on with her life. Yes, her life. Because there's not just one life to worry about in the "pro-life" equation. The thing that kills me about most pro-lifers is that they say they care about the baby, they'll give you scads of numbers for adoption agencies and parenting classes, but once you've actually been swayed to their way of thinking that's where it stops. They really don't care about the child after birth, or even you for that matter. They don't care that you've just had a child that you're not emotionally or financially equipped to raise, they don't care that if you gave that child up for adoption you now need therapy because there's an actual person out there with your gene-stamp being raised by someone else--Juno was a great movie, but one crying scene in a hospital doesn't really cover everything you know.

I guess I just don't understand the pro-life philosophy. I mean, why oh why oh why is it so important for you to have control over my body? Why do you feel it's within your rights to tell me how to live my life? Why do you think it's okay to wave pictures of Jesus and dead fetuses at my face when you yourself aren't really doing what Jesus would have done by bombing, shooting, maiming, hurling epithets and yes, even protesting in the first place.

Lookit, I've chosen not to buy into the current incarnations of Christianity because there are so very many problems with the organized religion model as a whole. However, I think you (as pro-lifers who tend to be Christian) should really take a minute to stop and think about what you're doing and think about what Jesus would really do.

Your lord and savior was a model of compassion and love. Is it compassionate to tell a nineteen-year-old college sophomore that by choosing to end a pregnancy that she knows in her head and heart she can't handle she'll rot in the same hell as serial killers and child molesters? Or telling a woman that is experiencing severe complications from her pregnancy that by choosing to end it to save her own life she's a selfish whore? Or excommunicating a Brazilian mother and abortion doctor for aborting the fetus of a nine-year-old rape victim?

I have to believe that if Jesus is even half of what Christians say he is, he wouldn't be down with that. I have to believe that a truly compassionate person would respond with love and respect. No one wants an abortion like they want a good job or a slice of cheesecake. Anyone with half a brain knows that. I have to believe that the Jesus my parents worship would tell me (should I meet him in the street and tell him I've chosen to go to Planned Parenthood) would tell me that it's okay, I'm still God's child, and ask if I wanted someone to go with me to hold my hand or to ask if I needed someone to drive me home after.

True confession: When I was with the Sailor I had a pregnancy scare. And I'm not kidding, it was a scare. I didn't sleep for two days straight. I did my research and found out that the closest abortion clinic to me was Asheville NC and that no clinic in North Carolina charged any less than $800 for the procedure. I didn't have health insurance and to a person making a little over minimum wage and just out of college, $800 was more money than I saw on a single paycheck--never mind the bills I had to pay. During my research I found a Pregnancy Crisis Center in Boone. Not only was it in Boone but it was literally right next door to my apartment complex. I made an appointment and went and was greeted by a sweet looking Grandma of a woman who was also apparently a nurse. She ushered me into the conference room, sat me down, asked me a few cursory questions and then proceeded with the Crisis help. Wanna know what she did?

She handed me an EPT box and went over the directions with me--like I couldn't read them for myself. She waited in the conference room while I peed on the stick, she had me put the stick in the middle of the table like some kind of shameful talisman (go ahead, say ick because I did) and while we waited an interminable ten minutes she showed me a binder full of dead fetus pictures. I'd previously told her how late I was so judging by that she was able to show me exactly what the alleged fetus looked like now and what it would look like if I was able to schedule an abortion in the next week. I explained to her that I definitely wanted one if I was in fact pregnant and politely asked her to give me contact information--you know, what they're supposed to do. She sighed heavily, refused to give me the information, and heaped on the judgment until a little line appeared on the indicator stick.

Luckily I wasn't pregnant. I cannot describe to you the relief I felt. I thanked her tightly and left, immediately called the Sailor and we had a relief dinner that was really tense and mono-syllabic because, Good God, what if, right?

Two weeks later I got a condolence card in the mail from that clinic with a hand written note from the woman saying she was keeping me in her prayers. I was deeply offended that she a) sent a condolence card, and b) that she felt that I needed praying for. Not long after I left Boone, which I should point out is a college town and a liberal arts college at that. Stress on the liberal.

But the sour taste still sticks with me and I can't help thinking that if that's what the non-violent pro-lifers are all about, then what are the serious ones like. Definitely not a group I'd want at my party that's for damn sure.

I guess my larger point is that pregnancy isn't something anyone takes lightly and the idea that women get abortions for fun, or that they purposely put off an abortion until "the fetus has a face" and it's more expensive and harder to get and some would say not legal is preposterous and laughable. It's a medical procedure in which anesthesia is involved and it's a vacuum for God sake. How is that fun on a Friday night?

To sum up I feel about this about how Voltaire felt about free speech, to paraphrase, "I may not agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it." That's how I feel about abortion, I don't like it, I'm not even sure I agree with it--even for myself, but if you must have it then I firmly believe you should be allowed to have it and that you should be given proper medical care in a safe and sterile environment.

That's all I got. Feel free to dialogue.

Oh. Ehm. Gee.

2009-04-28T19:48:50Z

Dear Brett,

Surprised to hear from me again? Don't be.

I hold you personally responsible for this:

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Thanks, ass.

Love,

Scarlett

The Fuck-It List

2009-03-16T19:24:39Z

I think by now we're all aware of my fascination with the Bucket List(s), well the ladies over at Feministe one upped me and came up with a Fuck-It List. That is, things that you feel positively no need to do before you die.

I feel this is, in a word, brilliant.

Piss up a wall
Have kids
Do things solely to please my parents, family members, or anyone other than myself
Buy something because a magazine says it's the best new thing to have

That's all I got so far. I'm sure there will be more.

Every rose has it's thorn. Of course, sometimes that thorn is a fungus and you have to burn the rose

2009-01-05T18:44:10Z

Dear Bret,

I remember you! You're the guy from Poison with the pretty-pretty hair who looked like that hot guy from Skid Row's poutier, slightly-less-attractive cousin!

How you doin', man?

Oh.

But hey, I love how you're still rockin' the bandana. Although, to be honest, it looks like you're using it more to hide your hair extensions than to tame the wild locks of old. But don't worry. That pouty guy from Skid Row's face got all puffy, so you're even. So to speak.

Now I'll bet you're wondering why I'm writing this letter. I mean, we're not really pen-pals and to be Frank, you're not really my favorite. I was always more of a Mötley Crüe girl. Of course, even then, I'd've traded both of you in for Guns 'n Roses pre-Insane-Axl so there you go. No, sadly this isn't a gushy fan letter. I figure you get enough of those.

This, good sir, is an intervention. You have fucked with the image of the majesty that is (or can be) metal and you must be stopped. I tried to say something when Ozzie did it, but frankly I'm afraid of Sharon.

Have you no self respect? Have you completely lost what sense (and talent) God gave you? Have you really sunk so low that you have to rely on reality tv ratings? Come on man. You were/are the front man of one of the biggest hair-metal bands in music history. You were that pretty man-boy from Poison, for Christ's sake!

Now look at you.

You're stuck with a confessional camera, fish-lips, and a tattoo of the VH1 logo on your balls.

I didn't say anything during Rock of Love Pt. 1. I bit my tongue during Season 2 because it made for a good trainwreck and you chose that cool chick with the hot pink bangs (that was Season 2, right?) so I figured you had at least one brain cell left.

I rolled my eyes when you called for your insulin. I grunted when you called it "dia-beeee-dus", I mean, come on, what are you--Wilfred fucking Brimley? I threw things at the tv when you let Lacey talk and I let it go when you let the girls gyrate all over you, cause come on. You're a lead singer. Duh, you like the groupies.

But enough. Enough. Enough.

Last night I watched the season premiere of Rock of Love Bus. On the time when it actually premiered.

I'll grant you, I only did it because I left the remote in the kitchen when I went to get my cold pop-tarts and I was on the couch and I was too lazy to get up and manually change the channel. Besides, I figured it was good for an hour-and-a-half of trainwreck televison.

But that, sir, was beyond trainwreck. That was some airplane-in-a-wheat-field shit right there.

Why, Bret? Why do you have to do this to yourself?

You're a smart guy. You're even talented. You know how to write songs and you've got a record deal, and you're an actual, honest-to-God touring musician. You don't need this shit, man. I'll argue you're even better than this shit, though don't expect me to do it with a straight face.

I mean, okay, I get it. Arguably this is every male fantasy come to life--twenty women falling all over themselves in a closed space to be with you. But you're Bret Michaels man. You don't need reality television to make that happen. Have your Big Butler guy put an add on craigslist--you'll get the same kind of response.

I just don't get it. An infant would get the premise of the show (the Bachelor meets Whiskey A-Go-Go), I'll give you that. But you've been doing this show for two seasons already. If you haven't found your "Rock of Love" yet, you're not going to unless you change your criteria. As of right this second, it appears that either you or the producers choose the twenty trashiest women they can get their hands on (or twelve trashy women and eight okay ones) and put them all in the same room. These women run the gamot of jobs, some are nurses, some personal shoppers, some strippers, some porn stars, some Penthouse Pets, some run escort services, they have to be smart to run businesses after all.

But did you have to make them so... shiny? These girls are cinched, plucked, waxed, pulled, tucked, pierced (not that there's anything wrong with that), extensioned, bleached, inflated and sucked within an inch of their lives. A few actually look like men.

And good lord, the boobs! I have not seen boobs that big outside of a Bush Whitehouse in my life.

You know Bret, it really makes me wonder if your quest is taking you to find a girlfriend or a Cheif Groupie. I mean, if the premise of the show is to be believed, you really are looking for your one and only. If this is the case, then awesome. If the opposite is true and you've just reduced yourself to whorring out to reality television, well then...

If you're interested (and i don't think you are) Ariel Levy wrote an amazing book titled Female Chauvenist Pigs: Women and the Rise of the Raunch Culture. Normally, I wouldn't bring it up. But as I was watching the season premiere last night, I found myself quoting whole passages like a tween-fangirl at a Cullen siting. Basically, the book posits that our culture encourages women to objectify themselves by constantly bombarding them with a Girls Gone Wild-style media frenzy.

Not until last night, when I saw the reaction shots of the other contestants because one of your "potential girlfriends" gave a test tube body shot by way of her vajooter did I really understand exactly what Ariel Levy was talking about.

I don't care if you've never seen anything like that in 22 years of touring. You encourage it by the very nature of your show.

You sir, are a part of the problem.

Which brings us to the crux of the problem. The mystic of rock 'n roll is in the stories. Stories of drunken debauchery and weird-sex-things pepper rock and really it's part of what makes it so cool. The occassional youtube video (or, in the case of the Go-Go's) sex tape, just adds to the mystery. But, by making it a reality show, you're killing it. No more can we romanticize and imagine. No, see, now all we have to do is tune in once a week and we get to see some collogen-injected Barbie doll suck vodka straight out of another collogen-injected Barbie doll's navel, and there's you with a camera to the Glory Hole.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Brett is the thing that makes Rock Stars sexy is the mystery. That heir of Too-Cool-For-You that permeats everything from the Aqua Net to the leather pants. And the best ones, the ones that don't just proclaim to be just about the music but the ones that actually are about the music, are above all this shit.

You've lowered your standards and we can smell it. Reality TV Star is who you are now, and you've got to remember what happens to Reality TV Stars. We're not smirking together at a shared joke anymore, Brett. Now the joke is you.

Stop while you still can,
Scarlett

You have GOT to be kidding me.

2008-12-31T15:34:05Z

I like to think you guys look forward to my open letters. Generally I think I'm pretty good at writing the scathing venom.

However, this does not merit an open letter. This merits an open post-it.

To Whom It May concern,

You're not funny.

Love,

Scarlett

PS: Blondes aren't the only ones who can't type and utilize lol-speak.

PPS: No, I'm not actually blonde nor am I upset that I've been "left out".

Ass.

Never let it be said that I don't think big.

2008-12-31T14:53:22Z

My problem with LJ Spotlight is I end up seeing all these awesome communities that I have to take part in. Right now it's the 101 things in 1001 days community. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not going to join it. But I do think this is an interesting concept that I must take part in. I've been mentally making a list since yesterday and one of the things I'm noticing is that a lot of my things mirror my Things to do Before I Die list. Coincidence? I think not.

So I'm going to do this thing. And as I don't have 101 things right off the top of my head, I'm going to list them here. Obviously I'll update the list and my journal as I do them, et cetera.

Take responsibility for my money.
Start a nest egg.
Pay off the credit card.
Put money in a general savings account.
Learn to knit.
Sell my creations via etsy and other such venues.
~~Start a fitness plan.~~
Train for a half-marathon.
Run a half-marathon.
Learn to bellydance.
Finish Autumn Leaves
Get Autumn Leaves published.
Get a tattoo.
Learn to upholster.
Reupholster the sofa.
Get a decent desk chair.
Go green.
Get a laptop (furthering the "go Green" mentality)
~~Submit short stories for publication.~~
Put at least 75% of money made through side ventures in savings.
Loose 80 lbs or get into a size 8, whichever happens first. *that's 50 to get me healthy and 30 to get me comfortable.
Look amazing in a two piece.
Know I look amazing in a two piece.
Volunteer regularly for something.
Use the yarn that's gathering dust in my yarn stash.
Learn an instrument.
Go at least six months without drinking any kind of soda.
Learn to cook.
Bring my lunch to work at least three times a week for at least six months.
Allow myself to take completely self-indulgent myspace-esque pictures and post them on the 'Net.
Finish painting my apartment.
Finish my craft room.
Learn prayerbook Hebrew--work on conversational Hebrew.
~~Wear nothing but dresses for thirty days.~~
Wear makeup to work every day for thirty days.
Say yes to everything for an entire week.
~~Talk to strangers.~~
Go to a karaoke bar.
Visit Build-A-Bear and create a stuffie.
Buy $100 in food cards. Give food cards away to the people with the cardboard signs in the street.
~~Read four books in a month.~~
No whites for thirty days. That is, no white flour, white sugar, white bread, etc.
Go to the art museum

That's all I got so far. Suggestions are welcome!